


Wish You Were Here

by NotQuiteHumanAnymore



Series: The Long Road Home [1]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Bisexual Character, Bisexual Pietro Maximoff, Bisexual Wanda Maximoff, Canon Compliant, Canon Jewish Character(s), DL;DR, F/M, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical meddling, Homecoming, I'm probably missing so many tags, Jewish Character(s), M/M, Multi, Pietro Maximoff Feels, Post-X-Men: Days of Future Past, Pre-X-Men: Apocalypse, Pregnancy, Romani Character, Teen Pregnancy, Teenage Rebellion, Telepathic Wanda Maximoff, Ten Years Fic, Ten year gap, The Maximoff Twins Need Better Friends, Time Shenanigans, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug, dodgy geography, exploration of culture, i'm having fun okay, messing with canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2019-10-26 03:46:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17738414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotQuiteHumanAnymore/pseuds/NotQuiteHumanAnymore
Summary: When Wanda Maximoff runs away, her brother will go to the ends of the Earth to bring her home. But will she want to come with him, or is her problem something that not even family can solve?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Phew, here it is. The first part of way too many. Here is the Ten Years Fic, aka the fic that bridges the gap between DoFP and XMA in the context of my fic [ Sanctuary ]().

There was a little diner in town, the sort with game machines in one corner, and rowdy teenagers throughout. People tended to call it a ‘hot spot’ for youths, but there was nothing really hot about it. Even the food, greasy burgers, and greasier pizza, often came out of the kitchen and was cold before it hit the table. The maintenance workers kept it relatively clean, which was a point in its favor. On top of that, it did have a large seating area and free refills, and really, kids are easy enough to please. 

For the most part.

Peter rolled his eyes as he heard Wanda snap her gum again, the noise echoing in the silence of her words.

He focused on the game in front of him, rather than the one that his sister seemed to be playing with the other boys in the pizza parlor. 

To any outside observer, it would seem that he was wholly engrossed in the game, in the silver ball bouncing between the pins and the score that steadily ticked higher and higher, but really, he couldn't have been paying less attention to it.

His sister was at his back, doing something  _ monumentally  _ stupid, and he knew any moment, they'd have to trade places so that he could knock someone's lights out. Honestly, why Lance insisted on antagonizing them, he'd never know. Well, why Lance insisted on antagonizing them instead of stopping his regularly scheduled dickishness and just asking Wanda out, he'd never know. There was a small part of his brain that was telling him that this situation felt off, that this situation was wrong, that they were better than this, now. That part of him was quickly drowned out by the noise of the pinball machine and the sound of Lance’s laughter in his ears.

The pinball machine dinged at him, and he spun at Wanda's signal, his mind going white as he slammed his fist into the side of Doug Ramsey’s face. Lance leaped to the rescue of his friend, slamming Peter's head down against the nearest table. It didn't deter Peter in the slightest, but it set off a loud buzzing between his ears. He knocked down Lance like a bowling pin and rubbed at his ear, trying to stop that buzzing noise. 

That very loud buzzing noise.

He realized it was also accompanied by an unfamiliar ringing in his ears.

He turned to Wanda, confused, trying to figure out if she could hear this shit, too, but when he turned, she was gone, and so was he.

He jolted awake, his head jerking back, off of the steering wheel, and his eyes widened in horror.

"Shit!" He swore, looking at the limb of the tree that had gone through the windshield, about an inch from his face. He scrambled back, through the ajar door (the source of that annoying buzzing noise, he realized) and fell onto the cool grass, craning his neck to look at the accident. 

The ringing was still sounding in his head, oppressive and  _ silent _ , he realized now, more like static than a ring. 

Wanda’s telepathic bond-  _ their  _ telepathic bond, was gone. 

No, he thought, forcing off the anxiety, the creeping terror that rose in his throat at the thought.  _ Not gone, suppressed _ .

"Wanda?" He croaked, aloud. "Wands, c'mon-" He stumbled to his feet, nausea hitting him again. His head spun, and he could feel a psychosomatic ache from where Wanda normally stood beside him. He ran his hands over his face and tried to focus on her, tried to pull her back. He could feel her, he knew she was there, that she was alive, but he couldn't seem to reach her, no matter what he did. 

This wasn't right.

It wasn't-

He turned and leaned against the still-smoking crater that was the rental car and heaved. 

His ears were still ringing, long after he shut the door, a noise that not even his headphones could force away. 

“Wanda?” He croaked aloud, not caring if he sounded crazy to any passing cars, not caring if he was concussed or bleeding internally, caring only about the fact that he was alone.

For the first time in fifteen years, he was well and truly alone. 

The thought sent a chill down Peter’s spine. His head spun with questions (and yes, okay, probably a concussion as well, he had a vague memory of his forehead crashing into the steering wheel as the world went dark and cold and silent and he drove into a tree. At least he’d been going the speed limit, this time.) and he feared that, even when he got home, he wouldn’t get the answers to any of them.

He knew, in the back of his mind, where Wanda was usually a reassuring presence, that he wasn’t going to get the answers. Not for a very long time. 

He tried to shake the feeling that had settled on his shoulders like dead weight,  tried like mad to tell himself that he was overreacting, that he was wrong, and that Wanda was just concentrating on something else. 

There was dead air at his back, at his shoulder, there was dead air crackling between his ears, a radio that had almost been turned off correctly. He could hear the hum of words that weren’t his, words that never would belong to him, but he couldn’t parse them. He couldn’t understand anything. He pulled some of that dead air into his lungs, trying to find his feet again. He didn’t have Wanda, but he’d go home and he’d find her. He’d ask her what the hell she thought she was doing, cutting him out without warning like that, he’d be pissed and she’d burn something on the stove trying to make it up to him, but she would be fine and she would be there. He’d make a bad joke and she’d gag instead of laughing, but he’d be able to feel her amusement anyway because she would be there. 

She had to be. 

He walked slowly around the car, to the passenger side, as he tried to focus on his footing, to make sure that if and when he started running, he’d be able to keep his feet beneath him, he wouldn’t fall and demolish a city block or something. He leaned carefully, slowly, into the passenger side of the car, through the window he’d had rolled down, and snagged his walkman off the seat. 

He needed to replace the dead air, and if Wanda wasn’t going to cooperate, then the Carpenters would have to do. 

He ran. 

He ran harder and faster than he had ever considered running in his life. He ran, for once, not because he wanted to, not because it gave him joy, but because he was terrified of what he would find when he arrived at his destination, and he knew that if he stopped running, he’d never start up again. 

Cement pounded beneath his feet and gave way to grass, to dirt, to gravel that he was careful on for the first time in his life. He could feel his head pounding in time with the music that blocked out the lack of kinship that normally resided in the back of his mind. A part of him worried, vaguely, whether or not he was going to get there before his concussion took over and he blacked out again. He wasn’t sure if that was how concussions worked, but hell, he wouldn’t put it past today. 

He crossed states in matters of seconds, knowing this path better than he apparently knew his sister. The path never changed, he’d run it a thousand times before. But until today Wanda had never disappeared on him. 

_ Is it psychosomatic?  _ He wondered,  _ Is what I feel really her, or do I just miss her that much? _ He couldn’t be sure. He’d never gone more than a few minutes at a time without her in the back of his head, and even then, it wasn’t because she’d decided to shut him out entirely, it was because they were both concentrating on other things and needed time uninterrupted by each other’s thoughts.

Fucking telepathy.

At least when people were actually beside you, you knew when they were gone again. Theirs was a semi-permanent telepathic bond, and he didn’t know what it felt like to be without it. Maybe this was just his brain trying to fill the gaps. Maybe this was just his brain trying to protect him. 

Maybe Wanda really was dead. 

The thought filled him with nausea again, and his head spun just enough that he couldn’t hold back.

He skidded to a stop, ignoring the smell of burnt rubber from where his shoes had skidded on the asphalt, the highway he’d returned to after the gravel roads ended.

He stumbled off the road, finding a tree that he thought looked pretty sturdy and used it to keep himself upright as the full weight of his fear and nausea crashed upon him. He gasped and gagged, doing what he could to keep down what little remained of his lunch.

He pressed his forehead into the bark of the tree, the roughness of it beneath his palms and the skin of his face giving him a different sort of pain to focus on, momentarily. Sure, he felt like he was missing a limb like someone had come along while he was driving and cut off his head, but he was still connected to this body, and the bark caught on his palm and his forehead and it grounded him.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

_ Give me a sign _ , he didn’t say, didn’t direct it at the place Wanda should have been but wasn’t. He knew, even if she was still alive, that she wasn’t going to answer him. So instead of pleading with the empty space in his head, he straightened his shoulders, glared at the horizon, where he knew home was, just a few thousand more miles off, and started to run again.

He focused hard on the air in his lungs, sawing in and out with every breath, painfully aware with every breath that his head hadn’t been the only thing injured when he crashed. He was fairly sure, now that he’d cracked a rib, at the very least, but given the damage to the car itself, he was surprised that that seemed to be the worst of the damage. His ankle twinged now and again, but he figured that had more to do with his sudden stop and pivot when he’d tried to focus on not throwing up again. 

He shook the thoughts from his head, trying to redirect his train of thought from what was wrong with him, because he knew that the train car of “what is wrong with Peter” was a hop skip and a jump from the train car of “what is wrong with Wanda” and that wasn’t going to help him find his way home in a timely manner. 

There was a distinct possibility it wouldn’t help him find his way home at all. 

His tape clicked, and he moved mechanically as if in a dream, his hand going to his hip, opening the Walkman, and flipping to the B-Side of his mix.

This one was the one that Wanda and Lance had recorded for him, in an attempt to get him to listen to some “better” music. 

_ Joni Mitchell _ , he had replied,  _ while popular, is not better than Queen _ .

She was fine, he told himself, he would know if she was hurt. He would  _ know  _ if she was dead.

He would, he had to.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter skidded to a halt at the edge of town, breathing heavily for once, suddenly terrified to go home. He knew Wanda wasn’t going to be there, he knew the house would be empty without her. He didn’t know what he would do when he got there to find her gone.

And he knew that he would. 

He paced restlessly, from one side of the road to the other, resisting the urge to punch the sign, that cheery “Welcome!” mocking him.

He stood there until the first song on the mix ended and another one started. 

He took in a shaking breath, ignoring the way his fingers itched, the way his heart felt wrong in his chest, the way that everything felt wrong. 

He wasn’t good at being alone. He’d never had to do it before. 

Hesitantly, he started walking, refusing to put more than an ounce of speed in his step. He reached the corner of the street that his house was on just as the tape ended. 

He let it stay silent, pulling off his headphones and letting the sounds of nightfall around him. He wasn’t entirely sure when it had gotten this dark, just that it had, and the chill was seeping through his jacket, through the fabric of his jeans and into his bones. 

As he approached his house, he saw a figure standing on the street corner, beneath the lamp, raking her hands through her hair over and over again. For a moment, his heart leaped, thinking it might be Wanda, but no. 

As he got closer, his mother turned to face him, the sounds of his shoes on the pavement alerting her to his presence.

She looked distraught. He knew that he wasn’t going to want his question answered, but it fell from his lips, unbidden, all the same.

“Where’s Wanda?” He asked, feeling the answer sink to join the chill deep in his bones. His mother looked at him sadly, her wild hair haloed by the streetlamp.

“I don’t know,” She croaked. Peter could see the tear tracks lining her face in this lighting. He’d never seen his mom cry before. Not when Anya was born, not when Django left them. Never. And that, more than anything else, made him realize that everything was not going to be okay if he walked through the door.

He straightened his shoulders, put his arm around his mother, and led them both into the house. 

Anya had the T.V. on, muted, and was staring at it like she’d been watching, even though Peter knew that she hadn’t been. Anya didn’t like watching T.V. alone. She liked guessing the endings of shows, or muting it and making up dialogue. She wasn’t making up voices for the characters, now. She was just staring, her shoulders hunched and her face half turned, seemingly afraid to look at them directly.

Peter let his arm slide away from his mom’s shoulders as she moved to sit on the couch, and knelt next to his sister. He reached out, tucking her hair behind her ear so that she couldn’t keep hiding behind it. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked, his voice quiet. Anya curled up into a ball, hiding her face despite Peter’s efforts to get her to look at him.

“Wanda isn’t back. She told me she’d come back.” Anya murmured into her knees, her tiny voice wobbling dangerously. “She said she was going to go talk to Lance, and she’d be right back. She promised.” Peter heard his mother take in a shuddering breath and realized that this was news to her, as well. 

He settled down on the ground next to her, wincing as he pulled her into his lap and waited for the floodgates to burst.

Barely a moment later, Anya was clutching his shirt and crying the way that only little kids could- with total abandonment. She was babbling away, her voice muffled where her face was buried in his shoulder, the remaining sounds barely intelligible from the sobs wracking her tiny frame. Peter held her close, trying to give her what stability he could.

“It isn’t your fault.” He murmured when her crying had moved from heartbroken to merely desolate. 

“I didn’t tell.” Anya sniffled.

“You did what you said you were going to do. And it’s going to be okay, bubelah. I’m going to find her.” He kissed the top of Anya’s head and she nodded.

“Peter-” His mother began, a warning in her tone, a deep-seated fear in her eyes that hadn’t been there when he’d left with Hank, Logan, and Charles. 

“I’m going to find her.” He repeated, more firmly. He wasn’t going to let his mother force him to stay here and twiddle his thumbs while the local police puttered around and failed to give a shit about Wanda, and he knew they would. His mother’s gaze turned sadder, somehow. He tried to give his mother a smile, even though his heart wasn’t in it. Even though he knew that she could see that. 

“It’s barely been two days! How far could she have gotten, anyway?” He asked. His mother smiled, tiredly, and he knew that she had to believe him. If she didn’t believe that what he was saying was true, then she would lose herself along with Wanda.

That night, he sat on the edge of Wanda’s bed, ignoring the empty space on the wall where her Magen David normally hung. Ignoring the fact that she never wore it, except on special occasions, or when she needed a little extra courage. Ignoring the fact that it being gone meant she didn’t intend to come back for a while. He stared out of her window at the empty street, perking up at the slightest movement in the darkness down there, hoping he was wrong about the Magen David, hoping he was wrong about Wanda not coming back, hoping beyond hope that he’d find her with Lance the next morning and he’d get to tell her off for worrying them all. 

He didn’t quite sleep, but neither was he entirely awake, by the time the sun rose again, and he stood, ready to start looking and knowing he wasn’t about to come home alone. 

“Stick with Anya, don’t let her blame herself.” He told his mother the next day. He did what little he could to ensure that he sounded as no-nonsense as possible. “I’ll call you as soon as I find Wands.” His mom rolled her eyes.

“Which one of us is the parent, again?” Peter just smiled at her, wishing she was making that joke under better circumstances.

“We’re coming back. Let Anya know we’re going to be one big happy family, just like before.” He replied, only half believing the words himself. 

His mom reached out to him and pulled him into a tight hug, and in that hug, he could feel all of her worry for Wanda, all of her worry for him. He could feel that she was terrified that this was the last time she’d see him, too, but that she knew he’d do this even if she told him not to, and that she knew this way, she’d at least get to say goodbye.

“Be careful,” She told him, practically an order, as she pulled back, placing both hands on either side of his face, keeping him from looking away. “You find your sister and you come home.”

“Course, ma.” He said, feeling his smile shake as he said the words. “Why would I do anything else?” She pulled him into another hug, somehow tighter this time. 

“If she starts listening to you again,” She whispered against his temple, and he didn’t ask how she knew that they could talk without speaking, but she did. He didn’t ask how she knew Wanda wasn’t talking to him now, but she did. She always knew. His mother might not always be the best parent, but she was an excellent mom. “You tell her to come home. You tell her I love her. Tell her nothing is too big to change that.”

Peter said nothing, just nodded.

He didn’t have a bag with him. Having a bag packed would have freaked his mother out. He knew Wanda wasn’t in town. He’d be able to pinpoint her presence almost exactly if she were. But his mom didn’t need to know that. His mom didn’t need to know that Peter had no idea where to start, beyond Lance Alvers. 

His mom didn’t need to know that he was almost certain Lance didn’t know where Wanda had gone.

Even if Peter had an inkling that Lance might just know why.

He stepped away from her, shot her another shaking grin, and turned away. 

 

It took him longer than he cared to admit to find Lance. Part of him suspected that Lance had caught wind that he was looking for him and had started to avoid him, for whatever reason. It would explain why he wasn’t outside, why he wasn’t anywhere in town that Peter could find him.

The weather was almost offensively warm. The sort of warm that would have been enjoyable under any other circumstances. It was January for chrissakes.

But Peter wasn’t in other circumstances, he was in right now, and right now he would have appreciated it if the weather would reflect his mood. 

Too bad his abilities didn’t involve weather manipulation. 

That would be cool.

A part of his mind, adjacent to the place that Wanda normally set up shop, whispered that he wasn’t looking in the right places.

He paused at the thought, half-certain that it wasn’t one of his own, and looked around.

He’d stopped in the middle of the park at the edge of the city, and it was nearly deserted. A few joggers, a lady feeding the few ducks that still hadn’t gotten the memo that it was winter, a woman and her dog playing frisbee…

Maybe Lance wasn’t hiding, he thought. Maybe he was just missing something obvious. 

He kicked a rock into the grass, scuffing his sneakers against the pavement of the sidewalk around the grassy portion of the park. He smiled as the dog with the frisbee came ambling over to him, dropping the frisbee at his feet, tongue lolling and tail already wagging. He crouched and passed his fingers through the fur behind the dog's ears.

“Hey there,” He murmured, smiling genuinely for the first time in what felt like years. It was hard to be sad around dogs, in his experience. “Do you know what I’m missing?” He continued, still addressing the dog. 

“There you are!” Came another voice. It broke through his self-imposed silence with a deafening, shattering shock. He blinked, and the rest of the world seemed to catch up to him. The woman who presumably owned the dog half-jogged over to where Peter knelt by the dog, a frazzled grin on her face. “Thanks for distracting her.” She continued. Peter nodded and stood up, trying his damnedest to muster an expression similar to “smiling politely.”

“You’re welcome.” He replied, almost a beat too late. “She’s a lovely dog,” He added because he felt he needed to say something else. The woman beamed. He turned to leave when a thought occurred to him. He spun back on his heel, looking over at the woman, who had just stood back up, frisbee clutched victoriously in hand, “Weird question, what day is it?” The woman blinked, the brightness of her smile dimming slightly in the face of her confusion.

“It’s Wednesday.” 

Realization washed over him in a single, stupefying wave. No fucking wonder he couldn’t find Lance out in his usual haunts around town. In the wake of Wanda’s disappearance, something as mundane as “school” seemed trivial. 

He supposed that something had to fall through the cracks.

“Thank you!” He exclaimed, knowing that this wasn’t much, that it probably wasn’t even going to help him find Wanda, but it was a missing piece. It was a start.

And that was more than nothing. 

He didn’t use his speed to get away, but he did run as fast as he could without it until she was out of sight, and that was still a fair amount. 

No use terrifying some stranger because he got a little enthusiastic. People already thought the town was haunted without him adding fuel to the fire. 

He still got to the school in record time, the looming brick building overtaking his field of vision. Any other day, any other circumstances, and he’d be absurdly proud of how fast he kept moving. 

There it was again. Circumstances.

He had a feeling that that word was going to be haunting him for a while. 

He smiled at the absurdity of the fact that he was feeling any sort of e excitement, rather than dread, for once, while entering the building. 

_ It’s a start, _ he reminded himself. 

A throat cleared as he passed the office and the odd cocktail of excitement and fear that he’d been feeling shifted to mainly guilt. He always felt guilty when he heard that sound. 

“Mr. Maximoff.” The desk clerk said, drawing out his name to maximize the amount of reproval he could feel in those five syllables. He turned to face her, a shadow of his usual winning smile on his face.

“Doris!” He crowed like this was a normal day, and he’d just been caught sneaking in late. Doris Herberger raised one plucked eyebrow over the thick-lensed glasses she wore. He leaned down onto the counter, still grinning at her like nothing was wrong. Her nails ceased tapping on the keyboard, and she regarded him coolly through the lenses. “How is the lady of the hour?”

“On time, unlike you and your sister.” Peter felt his smile waver at the reminder. He pushed back off of the countertop, wishing that one thing, just one thing could be normal. 

“Well, I’m here now,” He said, gesturing grandly at the empty halls. “The day can officially begin.” Doris rolled her eyes.

“Get to class, Maximoff. And tell your sister to show up, too.”

“I will as soon as I find her,” Peter grumbled, turning on his heel and marching away.

He had Sociology this period, a class that his counselor had insisted he take before Peter had realized he was pretty much just a crackpot with cool sunglasses.

He’d taken the sunglasses on his last session. Now the guy was just a crackpot with a couch.

Instead of going down the hallway and to the left, which would take him to his Sociology class, he turned right, down the hallway that was going to lead him to Lance’s first period English class.

Doris wouldn’t notice.

He waited there, right outside of the door until the dismissal came. The waiting was agony. Every second that ticked by was another second that Wanda was gone, another second he was alone, another eternity that meant Wanda might slip away for good. 

But he stayed still. For once in his life, he stayed completely still. Lance would not react well to him barging in and demanding answers. If he knew one thing about his friend-their friend- it was that much. 

So he did the one thing that no one else had ever been able to get him to do.

He waited patiently.

Well, he waited, and that was enough.

And when Lance came outside, Doug hot on his heels, the pair of them reeking of old smoke, all he had to do was clear his throat to get their attention.

Lance jumped at the noise, nearly a foot in the air, and didn’t that just explain the cigarettes. Lance knew something was wrong, and he really had been waiting for Peter to find him. 

Peter cocked his head to the side and started walking, knowing for a fact that Lance was the sort of guy who would want this conversation over and done and would follow him.

Sure enough, by the time Peter found himself squirreled away in a classroom with one of his best friends, Lance was the barest foot behind him. 

“Listen, man-” Lance said, his feet shuffling nervously, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his head hunched to avoid Peter’s gaze.

“Where’s Wanda?” Peter interrupted, his voice turning desperate. “You were the last person to see her, do you know where she went?” Lance blinked, surprised, and shook his head.

“Shouldn’t you know that?” He asked, waving a hand around his head to indicate what he meant. Peter leaned against the wall, letting his head fall back on it with a sigh. 

“She shut me out. I can’t hear her. I can’t reach her.” Lance’s shoulders slumped.

“Shit.” He said, simply. Peter huffed a laugh. That was a gross understatement. 

“Do you know anything?”

“She... She came and she talked to me. And she let me know what was going on, and then she yelled at me a bit and she left.”

“She let you know what was going on?” Lance shrugged, his face turning a bright, vibrant red. 

“Yeah, y’know.” Lance shrugged again, awkwardly, clearly embarrassed by something. “The whole deal about what was going on with her.” He emphasized the last words as if trying to imply something that Peter just wasn’t getting. Peter squinted, going back over his memories to try and figure out what in the world Lance could be talking about, but stopped after a moment, shaking his head to clear it.

“Do you have any idea where she is? At all?” Peter asked, practically begging.

“No, man, I just let her know that it wasn’t a good situation for either of us. I told her what I thought and that was the end of it. I mean, at the end before she took off, she did say that thing you two used to say, back when you moved to town? The shit about family-” Lance trailed off, running a hand through his hair, clearly trying to remember.

“Family is all we need,” Peter confirmed, scrubbing a hand across his face. “It’s what our mom told us when we left Django.”

“Yeah, that. But dude, after that, I swear she just went home.” Peter looked at him skeptically and Lance at least had the good grace to look sheepish. “At least, I thought she went home. She did have a bag with her, but I mean, I didn’t think anything of it at the time.” Peter reached out and clapped a hand on Lance’s shoulder. 

“Thanks, man,” Peter said, not really sure what it was that he was thanking Lance for. 

He sighed and rubbed his fingers across his tired eyes.

“You really don’t know where she’s gone?” Lance asked, his voice quiet, his eyes reflecting Peter’s own worry. Peter knew that Lance was the only person outside of the family who could really understand what they were going through, at the moment. 

He and Wanda had finally started dating last summer, after years of Lance being immature and picking on the pair of them (and, okay, a fair amount of immaturity in return, sue them, they were teenagers. It came with the job description), and of all the people who had shown interest in his sister (a distressing number of people), Peter had to say, he liked Lance the most. 

So the worry that he saw reflected in Lance’s face didn’t surprise him. He knew how much Lance cared about Wanda. 

_ Family is all we need. _

“Not a clue,” Peter said, at length, an idea forming in the static haze of his mind. “But I might know where to start looking.”

That phrase,  _ family is all we need _ , had applied to all of them, once. 

If Wanda had been talking about family, it was possible she had gone looking for Peter. It was a long shot, of course, he realized that, but he couldn’t help but hope that the answer was that simple and that Wanda wasn’t in any real trouble. 

He made short work of the trip back to his house, not caring who might wonder about the sudden gusts of wind, or their dogs barking at the aftermath of the nothing that he was more than capable of creating. He didn't stop at the park, or at the local diner, he didn't stop in any of the usual places, because Wanda wasn't there. Therefore, right now, as much as a touch of normalcy called to him, they weren't important. And besides that, they wouldn't provide the normalcy that he craved so much. 

They wouldn't feel right, wouldn't feel like home, without Wanda. 

So instead of stopping to enjoy the weather or the scenery, he ran back to his house, feeling the familiar burn of exhaustion creeping back up on him. He hadn’t slept since he’d walked into the Pentagon.

He would have to be fast. His mother might have been willing to let him go when she knew that he was looking for Wanda around town, but knowing that he was planning to leave the state, that he was planning to go find the man who had had him break a known murderer out of the highest security prison in the world…

Well, Marya Maximoff was many things. She was forgiving and kind, but she knew best when to stand firm, and Peter felt it in his bones, saw in his mind's eye the day that the four of them had left their stepfather behind. His mother would not allow him to do this if she knew. 

So he couldn't let her know.

He opened the door as silently as it would allow, only slightly worried to find it unlocked. That just meant that his mother had taken the day off from the call center in the hopes that Wanda might come back. 

He picked his way through the house at the fastest speed he could manage without causing a tailwind, staying low and out of sight, and gathered the things that he needed.

A bag, full of snacks, because he knew he'd need to eat soon, and he wasn't sure when he was going to get a real meal. Some spare clothes, to go in the bag, on top of the emergency money that his mother stashed in both his and Wanda's rooms, the money that they technically weren't supposed to know about. 

The money he thought would be just enough to get him to Wanda and back. 

Or so he hoped. 

A thought occurred to him, and just in case he was wrong carried him downstairs to find his passport. It was a whim, a feeling, telling him that he was going to need it soon. He took a deep, steadying breath, and then went down to the office that their mother rarely used and snagged his passport from the desk drawer, noting, with no small amount of satisfaction, that Wanda's appeared to be missing, too. 

Anya's and his mom's passport were still there, though, which meant that this was the proper drawer.

He searched the rest of the office, just in case. As he rifled through papers and looked between the pages of books, he found himself attempting to convince himself that he wasn't doing this, searching for Wanda's passport, to put off the inevitable. He just wanted further confirmation that he was right, that she wasn't just fleeing them, there was every possibility that she was fleeing the entire country, as well. He took a steadying breath as he found that there was nowhere else to look, and ran back up the stairs, his passport in hand.

His mother hadn't moved. He was fairly sure she was half asleep as she stared, trancelike, at the television set. 

He shrugged off his feeling of discomfort at leaving her without another word and shoved the passport into his bag. 

He looked around again, trying to figure out if there was anything else he was missing.

He ran to the basement and gave it the same once over, hoping to catch a glimpse of anything that might remind him of other necessities or amenities, or anything really. 

On a whim, he grabbed his own Magen David from where it sat on one of the television sets, also rarely worn, save special occasions. Wanda had seen fit to bring hers, Peter didn't know why he wouldn't do the same. It was another link between them. He wasn't particularly religious, he wasn't particularly superstitious, but part of him felt, deep down, that it would help him find her. 

Carefully, he locked the chain around his neck and dropped the pendant beneath the fabric of his shirt, hidden just in case. 

He swapped his leather jacket for a darker colored, warmer hoodie, vaguely remembering New York being one of those balls-ass cold places, given that it was January. He also didn’t want to stand out too much. He might be a mutant, and a fast one at that, but he could only run from things he saw coming, and if someone decided to jump him on the way to the bus stop because he had a shiny jacket or some other bullshit, he was fairly sure he wouldn’t enjoy it much. 

He meandered down the stairs, not putting things off again, as he went over his bone-bare plan in his mind. 

_ Walk to the bus stop. Bus stop to New York, or until he no longer felt like he was dead on his feet. Run to Salem, find Hank and Charles. _

_ Run to Salem. _

That was the one thing keeping him from freaking out about the rides on various forms of public transportation ahead of him. He knew that he would be far too exhausted after the past few days to run all of the way to the airport, and even he couldn’t make it all the way from his house to New York just by running in his present state. Maybe one day, but that day wasn’t coming any time soon. 

He heard his mother stand abruptly and dashed around a corner, out of sight as she marched out of the living room, a glass in her hand and a trembling hand covering her mouth. 

Curiosity won out, and he crept into the living room, sitting down next to Anya in front of the television set.

Magneto was giving a speech. Peter’s heart stopped at the sight of the man he knew to be family on the screen, pointing countless guns at the helpless men in what looked like a giant bank vault. 

He dragged Anya into his lap, holding his sister tightly, his eyes locked on the screen in a mixture of awe and horror.

_ Your father can control metal _ . His mother had told him and Wanda once, a smile in her eyes as she regarded them in the rearview mirror.

She had never mentioned he could do anything like this. 

Peter broke out of his daze as he watched a mutant woman shoot his father in the neck. He flinched and averted his eyes, looking down at his sister. 

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“You’re leaving, too?” Anya asked, her voice smaller than she was.

“I’m bringing Wanda back.” He replied, knowing full well that he was ignoring most of that question. Anya perked up.

“You know where she is?” She asked, excited. Peter glanced back to the doorway, glad that his mom hadn’t come back, yet.

“Yeah, I think so. Just came by to get a snack.” He said. It was mostly true. He gripped her in another tight hug and stood, plopping her firmly back in front of the television and changing the channel to something that didn’t involve his dad bleeding out on the ground.  “We’ll be back soon.” He said, smiling down at her, just to see her smile back, saying a silent prayer that he was right. 

And then he left, zipping from the room to grab his bag and leaving again, not caring, this time, that he caused a tailwind because part of him was worried that if he didn’t leave now, he might never. 

The rest of him knew that was bullshit, and he wouldn’t be able to leave Wanda, no matter how much he didn’t want to potentially go back to a country he barely remembered, and a place that had never felt like home.

Home wouldn’t feel like home without Wanda, and he wouldn’t be able to rest until he was sure she was okay.

He ran the whole way to the bus stop, not caring that he appeared out of nowhere in front of the ticket clerk.

The clerk didn’t seem to care much, either. He regarded Peter with dead eyes that had probably seen far worse than a teenager appearing out of thin air. 

“Hey,” Peter said, a little breathless.

“Where to, kid?”

“New York, or as close as you can get me.” He said. “I have to catch up to my sister,” He added when the clerk looked a little skeptical. Then again, that may have just been his face. The clerk shrugged.

“Not my business,” He said, “You’re on the 2:15.” At Peter’s confused look, the clerk breathed out a sigh. “It’s the next one to show up.” He eyed Peter expectantly and Peter scrambled for some of the cash shoved in the bottom of his bag, handing it over carefully, using his speed so that he wouldn’t get caught at a bus stop with upwards of a thousand dollars in cash. 

He paid for the ticket, ignoring the itch under his skin that was meant that moving at human speed was going to start driving him up the wall, soon. And being trapped inside of a bus would make it just that much worse. 

There was exhaustion settling into his bones, though, and in the back of his mind, there was this hazy knowledge that if he tried to run it instead, he’d wind up collapsing in the middle of the road somewhere, and that wouldn’t help anyone. 

So he paced restlessly from one end of the bus stop to the other. He kept his mind blank, empty, weightless, save for the static emptiness that he couldn’t seem to ignore. He did manage to ignore the pulling of dread at the labyrinthine knots of his stomach, shoving it away to some dark corner of his consciousness.

Maybe he should take up meditation, he mused. There had to be some merit to it if so many people found it helpful.

He doubted he’d ever be able to sit still long enough to make that work for him. But the train of thought, at least, got him to the point where he could look at the approaching bus (thirteen and three-quarters minutes late, not that he’d been counting, of course) without wanting to die.

He trudged his way up to the bus and took a deep steadying breath. The driver shot him a smile that he couldn’t quite return as he handed over his bus ticket and found a seat by the window (so that he could look out and at least pretend he was jogging).

The moment that he sat, the full weight of his exhaustion crashed over him, and he realized, fully and truly, how long it had been since he’d slept.

He traced the outline of his Magen David through his shirt and looked out the window.

He leaned back in the seat of the bus, shutting his eyes, knowing well enough that he’d be awake again long before they arrived at the next depot, and he let his thoughts slow.

Wanda, he thought, projecting the words into the air around him.  _ Come home. We miss you. Mom loves you, Anya loves you, I love you.  _ He repeated it a few times, in the hopes that Wanda was listening at the crack in the door she’d slammed between their minds. He used it almost like a mantra, lulling him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the search begins!   
> This fic will update every Wednesday, barring Life Interludes. Comments make the world go 'round!  
> Quick reminder that this is a prequel series to my fic Sanctuary, so if you have time or inclination, I'd recommend hopping on over there to get the full scope of this Universe.  
> Stay classy, and if you feel like it, come talk to me over at @scarletwix on twitter or tumblr!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update all, I got hit by a freight train of exhaustion and couldn't really bring myself to do much of anything. Oops.

He woke as he was flung forward, out of his seat and into the back of the one in front of him. 

He was officially swearing off all forms of transportation that weren’t his own two feet. He rubbed at his collarbone, irritated, trying to follow the scraps of his dream, the one he was fairly sure hadn’t been a dream. It had been Wanda, her grip slipping on the handle of the door between their minds, he was sure. 

She had to be hating this as much as he did, he knew. Even if she was the one who had decided to shove the door shut between them, if he was this affected, he knew she would be, as well. 

His head was still groggy from what he was sure had been a concussion earlier, but his healing factor was kicking in in earnest, at last. With a no more than a cursory glance toward the other two passengers on the bus, he reached into his bag and fished out one of the giant’s-handful of Space Food Sticks he had tucked away at the bottom. His head had finally stopped spinning. That was a good thing. Clearly, his concussion was, if not entirely healed, then close to it. 

With no small amount of trepidation, he eyed the scenery outside of the bus, wondering when his stop would appear, a small part of him wondering if he’d already missed it.

He stretched as best he could in the confined space, popping his neck and rolling his shoulders. He bet that he could run the rest of the way there. 

It was a short enough trip to run from New York to Salem.

Well, short enough for him. 

The bus rumbled to a stop in the middle of traffic again- likely what had caused the jolt that woke him from his mostly fragmented slumber and Peter swung his bag up onto his shoulder, maneuvering his way through the seats to the front by the driver.

“Stupid question- Where are we?” He asked, attempting to sound jovial. The bus driver eyed him with amusement. 

“Just outside of Newburgh.” Peter hummed and looked past him out to the standstill traffic.

“Mind if I get off here?”

“This is a highway, son.” The amused tone turned skeptical. Peter shrugged his shoulders. 

“”S close enough.” He said, stifling a yawn. The man shook his head and put the bus into park, throwing the doors open wide. 

“Be careful, now.” The driver said with a wary smile. Peter waved at him and waited until the man turned back to face the traffic before he dropped his perception of time and began to run. 

Ten minutes or so later, Peter stepped off of the pavement, eyeing the overgrown gate with some skepticality.

_ This is a school?  _ He wondered. It sure didn’t look very scholarly, if you asked him.

He shoved the card that he had retrieved from Charles’s wallet into the back pocket of his jeans and eyed the gate in front of him.

It was about twice his height, old masonry with a nice iron gate (or, rather, a rusted iron gate that would be nice if it weren’t rusting away) in the center. On the left-hand side of the gate, Peter noticed that some of the stone was less faded, in the shape of a circle. A “no trespassing” sign hung from the chain wrapped around the gate. 

Peter shrugged at no one in particular and settled his bag more firmly on his back. 

Then, backing up a few paces, he took a running start and vaulted over the gate, hitting the ground on the other side with no small amount of satisfaction. 

There were garbage bags full of weeds scattered across a half-cleared lawn that stretched further than Peter could see. Ahead, he saw someone sweeping off the stone steps that marked the end of the driveway that the gate was currently blocking.

“Hey!” He called out, zipping over to Hank, because it was very clearly Hank, with a suddenly breathless, hopeful smile.

“Peter!” Hank yelped, gripping his broom like a defensive weapon. Peter laughed at the sight. “What are you doing here?” He demanded.

“I’m looking for someone,” Peter began, trying to decide how best to describe Wanda to a near-stranger. He was quickly distracted by the sound of wheels on the hardwood floor inside. He glanced over and his eyes widened as he saw Charles, his face exhausted, a bandage over one eyebrow, and sitting snugly in a wheelchair.

“Holy shit, doc, I was gone for less than a week!” He exclaimed, wincing a half second later as he realized that those words had, in fact, left his mouth, and how insensitive they were. The man smiled at him ruefully. 

“My legs are a small price to pay to regain the full strength of my mutation, Peter,” Charles replied softly. “I understand that, now.”

Peter nodded, not fully knowing how to respond to that. Charles smiled at him, a little more warmly. 

“Please,” he offered, rolling out of the doorway, ignoring Peter’s clear bewilderment, and gestured for Peter to come inside. Peter did, obliging him and dropping his bag beside the door. He whistled appreciatively as he took in the decorum inside, which was clean and clearly where the cleanup efforts had begun.

“Swanky,” He murmured. Charles huffed a laugh, and he could feel Hank practically radiating amusement from beside them. This was a much different Charles than the one that Peter had met the week prior. 

“Who are you looking for,” Charles continued when it was clear that Peter had nothing further to add, “and how can we help?” Charles asked, “You will need to clarify further, as, for some reason, I can’t seem to read your mind.”

“Most telepaths can’t. They can’t keep up with the pace I think at.” Peter explained, only half realizing he’d interrupted, the rest of him still focused on his surroundings.

“Do you know a lot of telepaths?” Hank asked Peter thought of Wanda.

“Just one.” He replied, turning back to Hank and Charles. “And she’s got a back door into my head.” Peter shrugged, “Apparently even then I still give her a headache, sometimes.” He smiled, wan, at his joke. “She’s who I’m looking for, actually.” He held out a hand about an inch higher than the top of his head. “Yea high, looks just like me, but the exact opposite?” He clarified. 

Charles and Hank’s faces both turned to expressions of bewilderment. Peter sighed, feeling his shoulders droop. He hadn’t realized how hopeful he’d been until that had been taken away.

“That would... That’d make sense if you’d seen her.” He explained. “I just thought I’d check. She ran away while I was gone and... she’s worrying me.” He finished lamely. He waved at the area around his head. “She never shuts me out like this. It’s really quiet without her.” He added that last as almost an afterthought. Charles smiled at him sympathetically.

“You get used to the voices, and when they’re gone you miss them,” He said, guessing correctly.

“Yeah, that. Only, it’s been our entire lives. And now it isn’t, and she didn’t even tell me she was leaving, or that there was some big thing going on with her, and... I have to find her, man. I have to. Home isn’t home without her.”

“What if she doesn’t want to be found?” Hank asked him, clearly meaning to be a voice of reason.

“Then I find her anyway and demand an explanation, at the very least,” Peter said, sounding a lot more confident than he was. “She’s my sister, I can’t just leave her out there on her own.”

Charles nodded pensively and then rolled away.

“Follow me,” He called over his shoulder, almost as an afterthought.

“Holy shit,” Hank whispered his voice bordering on reverent. “He’s going to try Cerebro.” Hank didn’t miss a beat after that, immediately half-jogging to catch up, and leaving Peter behind.

“What’s a Cerebro?” He demanded aloud and opened his arms wide as if the answer would leap into them. After another beat, he sped forward to catch up to them as Charles called up an elevator.

The ride down was filled with Hank’s anxious whispering about how yes, he’d maintained the wiring but was Charles sure he was up to it? Peter mostly tuned it out.

It didn’t take them long, comparatively, to reach the basement level of the house, but Peter managed to fill that time with worrying about Wanda, so he was pretty twitchy by the time they hit the bottom.

Charles led them both down an unfamiliar, sterile-looking hallway. He looked perfectly at home between the pristine ice-white walls. Peter couldn't help but feel more than a little out of place. He felt like he was six years old again, sitting in a lawyer's office back in Transia, terrified to touch anything lest it broke. 

He shoved that feeling down. He'd come a long way since Transia. They all had. 

The professor led them down the corridor, past a series of doors that looked like they'd come straight out of a Star Trek episode, and Peter grinned, half tempted to ask if they were automatic, like the ones on the show.

And then the trio stopped, and Peter caught sight of Hank smirking in his direction. 

He was about to ask what the hell was going on and if this was some lame joke at his expense when the door lit up like a beacon. 

The door scanned Charles, and that was really the only word for it, scanned, because it seemed to look him up and down, and then settled on his eyes, the beam separating into two as it read his retinas and retracted. 

"Welcome, Professor," An overhead voice said, and Peter jumped a foot in the air.

"What the Hell?" he breathed, looking for a speaker, for the possible source of the voice.

Charles smiled over at Hank.

"The voice is a nice touch."

"Isn't she?"

"Where'd you get the voice module?"

"I had Raven say it in a few different voices after- uh," He glanced down at Peter. "When she was here last." Peter rolled his eyes.

"Ew." He said and followed the chortling Professor (he never would have pegged Charles for the scholarly type, from what he'd seen of the man during their short time together) into the room beyond.

And what a room it was. The high ceiling formed a dome, and either the floor was made of the most cleverly angled mirror Peter had ever seen, or the floor was a dome as well, set in reverse.

If Peter was being honest, it looked a fair bit like a spaceship.

He whistled again. 

"Holy Moses," He said. 

“Peter,” Charles began, regaining Peter’s attention.

“Yeah?”

“Your sister.” Charles reminded him. “What’s her name?”

“Wanda. Wanda Marya Maximoff.” Charles nodded, seemingly satisfied by this, and wheeled his way over to the edge of the walkway, where a console sat, looking much like the kind Peter imagined a space station would have. 

Peter looked over at Hank, still unsure what was going on. Charles reached over to the console with hands that Peter could see were shaking ever so slightly, and picked up a helmet, putting it on deftly.

"Cerebro helps Charles extend his telepathic range," Hank said quietly, catching Peter's confused expression. "He uses it to find mutants who are coming into their powers, mostly. The ones that are scared and need guidance. Or, at least, he did before we shut down the school."

"And he will be doing it again, now shut up, Hank," Charles said fondly. 

"Shutting up," Hank replied, cheerful. Peter could see the tension in both of their shoulders and wondered what in the hell they were so worried about. Or if they were worried about what they might find. 

Peter didn't ask. He just shut up and stayed that way, terrified of what Charles was going to say next.

"I think I have her," Charles said, after a few endless minutes of silence. "She's moving fast-"

"Is she fast, like you?" Hank asked, clearly delighted at the thought. 

"No, she's a telepath," Peter said. Among other things, he didn't say. His brow furrowed in no small amount of confusion. She was moving fast? Was she on a train? Or had she convinced someone to give her a ride? "Where's she going?"

"I can't tell, she's... she's shutting me out, it would seem." It was Charles’s turn to sound delighted, it seemed. 

"Yeah, don't take it personal, she's been doing that a lot this week." 

"She's on a plane to Europe, that's as far as I can get. Oh, she's noticed me."

Pietro. Wanda's voice sounded odd, close but not as close as usual. She sounded distraught. 

"Don't tell me not to look for you," He begged, "Just come home." He tried to say it as fast as he could while also keeping it as slow as she could understand, but before the words left his mouth, her presence was gone.

She was gone again, and the oppressive, icy silence in his mind seemed that much heavier for it.

And then the console exploded in a shower of sparks.

"Shit!" Peter cried, darting forward and pulling Charles away from the line of fireworks. 

Hank rushed forward as well, pulling off his jacket and trying to beat the few flames that had sparked to death with the fabric.

"Well," Charles said, his voice mild, "She is astounding." 

"Yeah," Peter replied, proud despite the circumstances, "You can say that again."

"She's headed to Europe," Charles continued, repeating the words defiantly, "That is all that I got before she decided to take out her fear on Cerebro."

"She did this?" Hank asked, gesturing at the general carnage.

"As I said," there was a definite smile in Charles's voice, now. "She is astounding." Hank shook his head, clearly giving up on his friend. "I do hope that helps you, Peter."

"Europe," Peter replied pensively, the words poking at his memories. "Europe..."

Family is all that we need.

That phrase used to apply to the four of them: Peter, Wanda, Anya, and their mother, but what if whatever Wanda was going through, she felt like she needed someone else? Another part of the family that they had left behind back in Europe?

What if she’d gone back to find Django?

The thought settled him, and even though the empty part of his mind didn’t respond, he couldn’t stop the way that hope expanded in him like a hot air balloon. 

Even if Django didn’t know where she was, or where she’d gone, he might know what to do.

It was just a matter of getting there. 

That, and figuring out exactly where there was. He knew that Wundagore was a small enough city, once he got there, he was sure he’d be able to find someone that knew where their stepfather lived.

He just had to get to Transia first. And once he was in the country, it was basically a "look at the horizon and find the mountain" to find the little city of Wundagore. Easy peasy. That wasn't the hard part. The hard part would come with the fear that Django wouldn't want to see him, that he might not want to help Peter find Wanda. It had been years, there was every possibility that despite the yearly cards on holidays and birthdays, Django wanted nothing to do with the pair of them. 

The thought froze him in place, though he knew he had no more time left to lose. 

He really wasn't thinking any of this through.

He shook his head to clear it, trying to decide whether or not to just try and find a phone number for Django, instead, to avoid any other confrontation, but he didn't know just how far he could get with that. And besides, he knew that Wanda, if she was going there, was going to have a head start on him. He knew that Wanda wouldn't chicken out at the last minute because she wasn't sure their stepfather would accept her. She had always been a hell of a lot stronger than him, in that respect. 

Besides, if the professor and his spaceship were to be believed, Wanda was already on her way there. 

"It did, Charles," Peter breathed, "thank you! I have to- sorry about your spaceship!" He said, speed walking backward from the room. He turned on his heel, stopping only to swing his bag back onto his shoulders before he ran out of the house and into the street beyond. 

Wanda was alive. And she was headed to Europe.

That was more than just a start.

He hadn't realized just how worried he had been about her, about the possibility that she had, in fact, been dead, until he had heard her voice in Cerebro. Until he had been presented with the reality that she wasn't dead. That he wasn't an only child.

But she had felt so sad. That was what he kept returning to. She had felt so scared and so distraught, and all he wanted right now was to figure out what was wrong, and how he could fix it. Or at least, how he could help her fix it.

But he had to get to her first. 

That was plan enough for him.

He stepped out into the sunshine and found it far less offensive than he had upon leaving his home the day before. He found that the slight chill in the January air couldn't even touch him. He was far past the point of caring about a little bit of cold. He was warmed from within, held tight by the knowledge that Wanda was safe, and that she wasn't beyond his reach. 

_ You're not alone _ , his heart sang.

_ Family is all we need _ , his mind chorused, the pair singing in perfect harmony that he could never hope to recreate under normal circumstances.

_ I'm coming, Wanda.  _ He thought to the closed door in his mind.  _ And you have better have a damn good explanation for when I get there. _

Was he going crazy, or did he feel Wanda laugh at that?

Probably the first. He'd always figured it was only a matter of time.

He grinned along with the feeling of mirth (or, rather, wry resignation) that he felt slipping through the cracks between the door and the wall of his mind, and set off to find the nearest airport.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmu at ScarletWix on tumblr or twitter if you wanna talk!  
> For now, to show my age, R&R, comments are the artist's lifeblood!  
> Sorry about all the incorrectly used em dashes, but my formatting got fucked up and quite frankly I can't be bothered to go back and try to fix it for the third time. At least, not right now.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That feel when Midterms clock you in the face and keep you from posting the updates of the fic you've already got finished...

Peter resisted the urge to slam his head repeatedly on the countertop.

"Paris?" He asked, half-desperate. The woman typed something into her keyboard, and he watched her closely, sure that he was missing something, or that she was missing something, or that.... something else was going on.

He slowed his perception of time and broadened his mind, opening himself up to the outside influence of latent telepathic energy.

There was a flash, a crackle of something achingly familiar, and a spark of red in the woman's irises.

That was a red he recognized.

"No, sir." She said, for about the thirteenth time. "Sorry, sir." She added because he was sure he looked completely dejected. He tapped his fingers along the top of the counter and sighed.

"So let me get this straight." He said, half begging the universe to be nice to him, just this once. The woman smiled at him blankly. "There are no flights to anywhere in Europe, not Paris, not Berlin, not even fucking England, for the next month." The woman nodded sharply, smile firmly in place.

"That's correct, sir."

Peter closed his eyes slowly and shook his head, certain that he had to be hallucinating. 

But no.

Somehow, some way, his sister had managed to infect everyone in this airport (and the one closest to Xavier's, and the one in the next state over) with the idea that there were no flights to anywhere in Europe.

At all.

For the next month.

"What the hell are you up to, you ass?" He hissed through gritted teeth, quietly enough that only Wanda could hear it if she were listening.

"How?" He asked louder, helplessly.

"My apologies, sir," The woman repeated. "It's very busy this time of year." This was almost word for word what he'd heard at the previous two airports. He'd give Wanda credit where it was due, but she was not one for overt creativity, that much was certain.

"I'm sure it is." He relented with another small sigh. "Sure." He conceded. "Fine. Okay, so how can I get to Europe?" He demanded, hoping to find some sort of loophole that Wanda had missed, something that she wouldn't be able to fix from Transia. 

The woman blinked, clearly lost in her script, trying to find whatever answer she was meant to give, and came up short.

Peter beamed, he knew, at that moment, that he had won.

"You could always try the docks?" Another woman suggested in a stage whisper, leaning over from her station behind the counter to where his own clerk was still staring at him fuzzily.

Peter felt his teeth clench reflexively. 

The docks were a damn good idea and one that Wanda wouldn't have closed off to him.

Because the docks meant boats.

And boats meant being locked in a tiny space for however long the voyage was.

Which she knew would drive him entirely out of his mind, if he hadn't already gotten that far.

"Who might be crossing to Europe this time of year?" He asked, his voice breaking slightly as his heart kicked like a caged rabbit in his ribs. 

The woman gave him a thoughtful look. 

"You could always try one of the crab boats?" Woman 2 suggested.

"No, you'd have better luck with the lobsters. Lots of people like lobsters." Woman 1 argued.

"Or you could go commercial!" Woman 2 said brightly. "Commercial would be your best bet, by far. And more comfortable, to boot!"

"Trade boats go to Europe more often, Sally." Woman 1 said.

Peter sighed, deciding that it really didn't matter who was going, so long as someone was. He already felt like he was going to need one of those sickness bags that were common on airplanes.

What in the hell was he thinking?

He was thinking that he couldn't run on water.

Not that he'd ever tried. And running to Europe really shouldn't be what he used to make his first aquatic race attempt, even if it would be far more bearable than being stuck on some rust-bucket for a week or two.

But Wanda needed him. He didn't care how reluctant she seemed to speak to him, he'd felt her emotions when she'd backtracked through Charles's psyche in Cerebro. 

He'd felt mainly despair, true, but beyond that he'd felt her homesickness, her pain, and her immediate wish to make everything better, her immediate wish that he was there with her.

You know, right before she'd blown up the console in her sudden, secondary wave of panic and shame, and infected flight attendants with the idea that there was no such thing as a flight to Europe.

He knocked twice on the countertop, getting the attention of the bickering saleswomen.

"Thank you very much for your help, you've been very kind." He said because he was dreading his next question. "Which way do I go to find a boat?"

They gave him succinct directions, and he'd almost laughed when he heard the next man in line ask for a flight to Paris, to be told that not only were there seats available on the next flight, that they could upgrade him to first class, as well!

The professor was right. His sister really was astonishing.

She was getting an earful for this one, though, he could sense it already.

 

He took his time going to find a boat, meandering his way through the town he'd found himself in, putting off the inevitable by just enough that he could feel a significant amount of guilt creeping in on him. 

Wands, please stop this now? He begged, projecting his thoughts as far as he could. We can figure this out together, just please don't make me deal with taking a boat to find you. 

He could feel panic mounting and normally Wanda would be there to help soothe the roughest edges of it, but he didn't have her, now.

All that Peter had now, was an idea, and static at the back of his mind that confirmed that he hadn't lost his mind and that Wanda really was gone. 

That or she'd never existed, to begin with, and this was all some fever dream, but he was less inclined to believe that. He knew what lucid dreams were like, and they were easier to deal with, in his experience than boats.

Finally, having no further excuses, he wound his merry way down to the docks that he knew held his doom and started asking around about anyone going on a potential trip to France. Or Spain. Hell, he'd even take England and swim the fucking channel if it got him to his sister.

His frustration had been great enough for the past few hours that he'd found himself almost-not-missing Wanda, but now that was fading, and he was more aware of her absence than ever before. 

Peter stared down at the shifting water against the hulls of the boats below and grimaced.

“Boats suck.” He murmured, mostly to himself.

“Boy oh boy, you’re in the wrong place.” A cheerful voice remarked, an accent rounding the vowels of her words and the shock of another voice addressing him pulling him up out of his reverie. He turned and saw a girl with fairly vibrant orange hair. She looked to be about his age, which struck him as odd, considering literally everyone else here looked at least twice that. She smirked at him and Peter glanced around, sure she had to be talking to someone else. 

“Sorry?” He asked, right before the silence grew awkward. The girl rolled her eyes and shifted the bag in her arms.

“If you hate boats, this isn’t the place for you to be.” She said with a snort. 

“I’m not... good with confinement.” He decided at last. He shifted his feet, wondering why the hell she wasn’t walking away. Surely she couldn’t be looking to him for conversation? “I need a boat though. I mean, I need to find someone to pay to take me to the first place in Europe we can reach.”

“France.” The girl confirmed.

“Well-” Peter said, wondering how to explain that Spain or even Italy, or any other landlocked area would work just as well. He’d even go for Norway, though the extended length of the voyage would drive him batty.

“No,” She cut him off, her voice seemingly made of unending patience for his inability to understand what she was talking about. “My uncle and I. We’re going to France. He’s always talking about hiring someone to help with sailing. Refuses to let me do it.” Peter blinked.

“Why?”

   “Because I have more important things to do.” She eyed him up and down before seemingly coming to a decision.

And then she flung the bag at him and started to walk away. Peter caught it easily, but his already frazzled nerves twanged at the sight of the bag flying towards his chest.

“What the hell?” He demanded, but the girl was already walking away, her posture confident, her orange hair swaying with every step. He could see now that part of it was actually a deeper auburn like she’d gone and found the furthest orange from her hair color at the local CVS and used it to dye a stripe in her hair.

This was... unsettling.

“You’re gonna have to prove you’re not actually a bundle of twigs if you want my uncle to let you anywhere near the crabs.”

“I don’t...” Peter called toward her retreating back, his speeding thoughts swirling at this sudden, inexplicable change. “I don’t want that.”

Peter considered simply dropping the bag and moving on, but if it really were that simple, if he really had just found his ride, then the girl’s sanctimonious attitude could be ignored, really. He followed if just to return the bag that she had hurled in his general direction, and when he caught up to her, she was already speaking to someone else, hands on her hips, her shoulders drawn back assuredly. 

The man she was speaking to was smiling indulgently at her and seemed to sense his presence as he approached.

“You ever sailed, son?” The man boomed, not even bothering to let Peter introduce himself. He thought of Django’s fishing boat on a lake he could see to either side of.

“Sure.” He said. “But not in a while.” He added, trying to sound casual about it. The man surveyed him with no small amount of skepticism, his mustache twitching as he thought.

“Well, that’s a damn lie if ever I’ve heard it. Still, we need to leave soon, can you at least pull your own weight?”

“I can carry anyone you point me towards,” Peter said it as a joke, but the man didn’t seem to have a single funny bone in his body. Not even in his ulna. 

“If you’re lying, I’ll have Crystal toss you overboard. No one will even know where to look for you.” The man said, after a moment. “We take our fishing very seriously around here.”

“Don’t call us the crab kings for nothing,” Crystal muttered. “We are hopelessly devoted to the craft.” She said, louder.

“Crystal is vouching for you, so if you are up to the challenge, you can come with us and pick up whatever deadweight is left.” The man decided, his voice returning to its previous uproarious timbre. He nodded, as if pleased by his own decision, and then turned, high tailing it back to the boat, his decision thus made.

“What the hell?” Peter asked again. He turned to the girl, Crystal, apparently. “Why?” He begged.

“You’re a desperate sap, and I hate everyone my uncle hires.” She said simply, taking her bag back from him. “I’m the only person under thirty on this damn boat, and it would be nice to have... Some kind of company.” She looked at him like she was sure that he wouldn’t prove to be the company she was hoping for. “Besides, you won’t find a boat faster than ours.”

“You stop to catch crabs daily.” Peter deadpanned.

“You don’t know how anything works, do you?” Crystal sounded mirthful. 

“Apparently not.” He sighed.

But he did need the ride.

So, without stopping to think about what sort of person hired a man last minute, he followed Crystal up the dock toward her uncle’s fishing boat and sealed his fate.

Even as he stepped on board, part of Peter wanted to jump off the boat and find another way to cross the ocean. Maybe he could just swim for it. But, seeming to sense his hesitation, Crystal’s uncle came up behind him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. Crystal’s uncle turned him around to face away from the docks. 

Peter watched as the crew scattered across the deck. At a gesture, Crystal left his side and danced up to the upper deck. There was a jolt and the boat began to rock as Peter followed Mr. Amaquelin over to the other workers. 

When Peter looked over his shoulder behind him, and he felt his stomach drop. The docks were receding little by little, and as the boat picked up speed, Peter knew that there was no chance of going back, now. 

“Come meet the others,” Mr. Amaquelin said, bringing him back. Peter knew he needed that distraction, and he hoped that he would be able to find it throughout the journey. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean... Fuck the Inhumans storyline.   
> I'm just having fun and stretching things as far as I can go, at this point.   
> (Or am I and will this all secretly add up to a horrible conclusion in about four fics time? Guess you'll have to wait and find out *wink wink*)  
> To date myself, R&R, comments are the lifeblood, please feed me my children are dying.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Sorry for the hiatus, I really should queue these chapters up to post automatically, but I feel this one is the weakest in the story so far, so I wanted a chance to look it over again before I posted it. Frankly, I'm glad I did, I found more than a little bit that I wanted to change. Now that my life is a bit more settled again, I'll be posting regularly up until the end of the fic, when I'll have to start editing the next story in the series. Hope you enjoy!

Peter was a fast learner, he always had been. Even if he didn’t always use the knowledge that he had, that didn’t mean that he lost that knowledge altogether. As time went on in his journey, he learned more and more about life on the ocean, about travel, about himself, and most importantly about crab fishing. 

He got very good at helping haul up the cages, his speed giving him a natural strength boost that the rest of the men on the crew teased him about. He was too scrawny to be so strong, they said, but he just laughed it off. 

He’d gotten better as time went on at relating to these fishermen, understanding them, and helping wherever he found that they needed him to. But he had to admit that the first time Crystal showed up and told them to stop hauling up the cage, he was shocked when everyone listened, and he was the only one left asking why.

But then the water began to bubble and churn below them. The boat itself rocked with the sheer force of the suddenly roiling waves. Peter looked up to the sky, expecting to see a storm coming, but the air above him was clear, and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. 

After a minute, the sea calmed and at a nod from the man beside him, who offered no other explanation, they began the process of bringing up the cage again. 

He’d done this more than a few times now, but this time the difference was clear from the moment the grated top of the cage broke the surface of the water. The cage was stuffed to the brim with shellfish, scuttling around atop each other trying to find some way to escape. Peter thought there was barely room for them to breathe, let alone escape if they could. He looked up at the other men, baffled, but none of them gave him an answer beyond a smirk. 

He looked, instead, to where Crystal had wandered to after giving her order to stop. She was over at the helm of the ship, leaning against the rail and basking in the rays of sunshine that he was fairly sure she was creating just for effect. She caught his eye and granted him a small wave. He ducked his head, shaking it as he focused on his job, to clear it of unruly thoughts. He had a job to do, and part of that job involved not getting thrown overboard for flirting with the Captain’s niece. 

 

“What’s your name?” Crystal asked him, approaching him on the deck one night, Peter glanced at her and then looked away. He turned back to what he was doing as he tried to decide whether to give her his name or to make one up. She sighed and leaned against the railing, regarding him with that quirk of her lips that reminded him of a smirk, but that he’d realized wasn’t quite sardonic enough. He couldn’t place it. “If you don’t want to tell me, I’ll have to make one up.”

Peter went back and forth on it for a few moments more, and apparently, that was more than enough for Crystal to come to a decision of her own. “Fine. I’m going to call you Silver because it’s the first thing everyone says about you.” Peter blinked at her. He moved to lean against the railing beside her, gripping it and staring down at the churning waves below for a length of time that Crystal didn’t notice before he remembered to pull himself back to the present, to the pretty girl beside him, and continue the conversation.

“People talk about me?”

“It’s a small boat, Silver.” Crystal teased, leaning forward, the small smile on her face grew into something teasing, almost genuine. He couldn’t help but smile at her tone. She hummed at him, reaching out to trace her fingers along the back of his hand. “I have another question, let’s see if you can answer it.” Peter looked at her, confusion in his eyes. She was very close to him, now. 

“Okay?”

“Are you going to kiss me or not?” Peter’s heart stuttered in his chest, and her fingers on his hand suddenly seemed to burn. She wanted him to kiss her.

That was new.

He debated it for a beat, and then another. He was stuck here with her, if he fucked this up, he wouldn’t be able to run to another state to avoid her. 

But then again, the thought of kissing her sped his heart rate, warmth spreading through him along with it. 

It might wind up being a bad decision, he decided, he might wind up being a truly terrible kisser, but she wanted him to kiss her, and he wanted to do it.

So he did.

Without remembering to slow time again, he placed a hand on her shoulder and leaned over, pressing his lips to hers, gently.

And then time caught up with him. Crystal gasped beneath his mouth and leaned into the kiss, wrapping her arms around his waist and pulling him close to her. He let her lead the kiss, not wanting to make her uncomfortable, and as he followed her, he realized that letting her drag him onto her uncle’s crab-fishing boat was the best thing he could have done. 

 

“Ever heard the phrase ‘everyone’s a mutant’?” Crystal asked, a terrifying gleam in her eye. He’d started to love and hate that look in equal measure. He’d dubbed it her “let’s set shit on fire” look. Not that there was any specific reason for calling it that, certainly not a corner of the ship with scorch marks on the deck.

They had been sailing for a few weeks now, and it had become increasingly clear that he really only was there to keep Crystal from getting bored and setting things on fire.

According to the crew, that was something that she did regularly, and no one could figure out how she was doing it. 

Peter froze at her words. Yes, he had heard them, but no one he’d met had ever given them much merit. He pulled away from her slightly, his hands pausing as he played with her hair.

He decided that he really shouldn’t have asked whether or not she dyed it to look like that.

“Sure,” he said after it became clear the question wasn’t rhetorical.

_ Wanda, what have you gotten me into? _ He demanded, resigned to the static in his brain being the only answer he’d receive. 

“My family,” Crystal continued, leaning forward conspiratorially, “has figured out how to make that true of everyone.” Peter blinked, dread spread down his spine. 

“What do you mean?”

“I wasn’t born with my abilities. I'm not a mutant,” Her grin got bigger. “But I’m not human, either. Not anymore.”

Peter stayed quiet. Crystal rolled her eyes and kicked him. He kicked back, halfheartedly.

“How are you not human?” That was both the right and wrong thing to say, clearly.

The right thing to say because Crystal sat up straighter, her grin going almost maniacal. It was clearly what she’d wanted him to say. 

The wrong thing to say because Crystal sat up straighter, her grin going almost maniacal. Peter did not want to know where she was going with this. 

“How fast are we going, Silver?”

“Uh,” Peter spun the chair and leaned up to check the speedometer. “90 something?”

“Knots,” Crystal leaned over and tapped the numbers. “Boat speed is measured in knots.” Peter shrugged. He didn’t know anything about anything as far as this boat was concerned. If someone told him to do something, he did it, until someone told him he was doing it wrong. “This boat averages about thirty knots.” Peter glanced down at the speedometer, and then back at Crystal, whose smile looked genuine, at last. She looked beautiful. Her eyes turned sly again and he wondered if he’d imagined it. “As I said, I can’t help with the fishing. I have more important things to do.”

“You’re... Moving the boat?” She scoffed.

“I’m moving the water.” 

“That’s-” Incredible. Horrifying. “Neat.” He settled on. 

“Sure,” Crystal smiled again, leaning in to peck him on the lips. “Neat.”

“Why?” Peter asked later, realizing as he did so that the ship slowed minutely. If he hadn’t been used to it, hadn’t been used to being on the ship, now, hadn’t been used to judging speed by how fast he normally went, he wouldn’t have noticed the shift at all.

Crystal chewed on the crust of her sandwich thoughtfully. It was clear, however, that she knew exactly what he was referring to. 

“I don’t know.” She said, “It was something my grandfather did. Like the crabs. He signed up for some kind of genetic study back home and it paid him enough to start the business. It became a tradition. You get your genes altered, you join the family business.” Crystal grinned. “I’m pretty pleased with my lot, to be truthful.”

“You can control the elements, Crystal,” Peter said, a smile twitching at the corners of his own lips. “I’d say that’s  a pretty good deal.” Crystal giggled, the sound a lovely distraction from the conversation they were having. 

“So when do I get to hear what yours is?” Peter dropped his sandwich into his lap.

“Wh-what?” 

“You’re a mutant,” She looked at his hair pointedly. “Obviously. No one picks that color when deciding to become a beatnik.” She stopped, looking pensive. “Is that the word?”

“Yeah,” Peter replied, his voice suddenly dry. “That’s the word.”

“Oh, come on, Silver,” Crystal said kindly, “I’m not going to rat you out. No one on this boat will.”

Peter swallowed hard, picking up the remains of his sandwich carefully, putting it back together quietly. “Superspeed.” He said, mumbling it just loud enough that Crystal couldn’t make him repeat it when he was done repairing his sandwich. Then he pointedly shoved a quarter of it into his mouth to avoid further questions. Crystal rolled her eyes fondly at him but didn’t press him for details.

“So you’re quick.” She mused, an idea striking her suddenly, her eyes going wide, her face going delighted. Peter wished his mouth wasn’t full of whatever her uncle made for lunch, because that look was very pretty on her, and he wanted to kiss her immediately. “We should call you Quicksilver instead!” She giggled, “Like the other name for Mercury!”

“You mean the planet?” He asked, once there was room in his mouth for speech. Why she found him the least bit attractive, he mused, he would never know.

“You need to read more books, Silver.” Crystal sighed, clearly not meaning it. 

“Yeah, just point me in the direction of the nearest library, and I’ll get right on that.” He quipped back. 

“Go soak your head.” Her voice was cheerful when she said it, which belied the meaning of her words. Peter just smiled and took a more reasonable bite of his sandwich. 

 

“I wasn’t expecting to like you, Silver,” Crystal said, a small smile on her face. “I thought you might turn out to be an idiot.”

Crystal had slowed the ship to its normal speed, it felt like a crawl in comparison, but they were coming up into an area where other people would pass and be suspicious if they saw. Hence Crystal’s apparent sudden nostalgia.

“Well, how does it feel to be right all the time?” Peter teased. Crystal sighed, dramatic and leaned into him, smiling and fluttering her lashes enticingly.

“It’s exhausting.” She declared. “I’d like to be wrong, just once, to see what it’s like.”

Peter chuckled at her face. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, glad he got to do it.

“You’ve got time for that yet. It’s bound to happen eventually.” Crystal laughed. 

“You know,” She began again, “You never did tell me why you needed to get to Europe in such a hurry.”

“My sister ran away,” Peter said, without thinking, the lack of her familiar presence tangible for the first time since he’d let life on the ship (and Crystal) distract him. “I’m trying to find her and bring her home.”

“Oh, Silver.” Crystal sighed, running her fingers through his hair. “You’ll find her.” She murmured, pressing her lips against his cheekbone. Somehow, she had managed to both find and drag up the one fear that he’d refused to articulate, and soothed it all in three words. 

“I hope so,” He replied, voice raw.

“I’m right all the time, remember?” She teased. “I don’t think that’s going to stop now.” Peter hadn’t fully realized how worried he’d been until she had said that he would, undoubtedly, find Wanda. Not finding her had been the one biggest fear he hadn’t so much as allowed himself to consider in depth. If Wanda was well and truly gone, and he’d never see her again, he wasn’t sure what he’d do.

He certainly wouldn’t be able to go home without her.

Crystal pulled him back up, out of those thoughts, grabbing his hand and standing him up, drawing him back to the present. 

“Come on, Silver. We’ll be in coming into the harbor, soon. You’ll want to see that.”

The next few hours passed quickly, for being in normal time. He dashed from place to place, helping anyone who called him over as they readied the ship to dock. 

And then he was shaking Crystal’s uncle’s hand and thanking him for allowing him to stay with them. He could feel his purpose rising up behind him, ready to settle back on his shoulders as soon as his feet hit the dock, now that he could continue on his way. 

“We’ll be here for about a week,” her uncle said, smiling at him beneath his mustache for the first time since they’d met. “If you are back by the time we leave, we’d be happy to take you home, as well.” Peter did his best to return the smile.

“Thank you,” He said. “I hope to see you again soon. I can’t thank you enough, really.”

Crystal’s uncle rolled his eyes

“Okay, son.” He chuckled. “You’re welcome, now be on your way, before you thank us til you drop.” Peter smiled, the expression coming easily this time, adjusted his bag, and walked to the dock, where he could see Crystal waiting for him. 

“Don’t bother saying goodbye.” She said as he approached, tossing her hair over one shoulder. “We’ll see each other again before you know it.” Peter couldn’t help but smirk at her confidence, reaching out to tuck her hair behind her ear. He drew her into one last kiss, letting that serve as his goodbye: his lips pressed firmly against her smiling mouth, letting him say ‘thank you’ and ‘goodbye’ all in one gesture.

“Watch this be the first time you’re wrong about something.” He said with a grin as he pulled away. He dashed out of the way as she swatted at him in mock-offense.

“Good luck,” She said to him, her smile almost sad. The word ‘bittersweet’ came to mind. He’d been feeling the blood burn in his veins since they’d docked, and he realized that the word wasn’t quite his. 

The static in his mind was a little softer, and he could feel something tugging at him, a feeling of homesickness that also didn’t belong to him.

No longer half a world away, Wanda was having trouble sticking to her guns and keeping him shut out. 

He bet he could just about trace her using their bond, but he figured the smart move was to stick to the plan, to have confirmation before he started running all across Europe- chasing the hazy knowledge that she was nearby.

He shoved that away, looking over at the girl who had gotten him here. He knew, somehow, that he wouldn’t ever see her again.

“Thank you,” he said, instead of goodbye. “I hope you’re right.” He didn’t tell her what he hoped she was right about, because it was all of it. He hoped she was right about Wanda, hoped that she was right that he’d get to see her again. 

He let his mouth twitch mischievously.

And then he was gone. 

He paused hidden a little bit away and heard Crystal laugh, incredulous, at this display of the ability he’d never gotten to show her on the ship. 

That sound echoed in his ears, chorusing with the hope that his family, his life, would be normal again soon.

And then he turned, facing the direction of his deep-seated knowledge that Wanda was near, and he ran. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on tumblr at ScarletWix!

**Author's Note:**

> And so it begins! I'm basically just having fun with this, exploring my writing skills and exploring how much I can mess with canon. This will become.... very apparent as the fic and series progress. If you enjoy it, please comment! Pop by and say hi on tumblr @ ScarletWix!


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